


This, You, Us

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because life is hard now doesn’t mean it won’t get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This, You, Us

_You’ve always trusted him._

 

Even back when you were in middle school and had to live off cereal, instant ramen, and cheese sandwiches. You can clearly recall having a closet full of the same shirt: white, red sleeves, an image of a record printed on the front. He’d found them at a thrift shop, a box of them brand new and only costing a quarter a shirt. Some of them you would cut the sleeves off of and turn inside out so people wouldn’t think you were wearing the same filthy shirt over and over again. Other times you would zip your jacket as far as it could go, shielding that record away from assuming eyes. 

 

People would ask if you were hot and you’d give them some bullshit story of how your iron is extremely low so you’re always cold. But that shirt would cling to you beneath your jacket, drenched with your sweat, bunching and sticking to your skin and making you miserable as fuck. 

 

_“Don’t worry, dude,”_ he’d say each time he spent fifty percent of his shitty paycheck to add to his down payment for a sound system he was buying from some sleazy asshole at a pawn shop. _“I got this_. _I got_ _you_. _I got_ _us.”_

 

_And you always believed him._

 

On the nights he was late coming home, you would end up falling asleep in the living room on your busted up sofa while waiting for him. When you woke up, there’d be a few bucks on the table in front of you and a pack of Pop Tarts, cherry flavored, your favorite. You’d take a shower, get dressed, grab the Pop Tarts, and leave for school. You never took the money. 

 

_You figured he needed it more than you, anyway._

 

Some nights he didn’t come home at all. 

 

On those nights, you would crawl out your window and onto the roof and stare up at the stars. You’d close your eyes and imagine what it would be like to travel through space, through time, to see who you were when you were much younger and who you’d be several years from now. 

 

_But mostly you’d think about him._

 

You’d wonder what he was doing, if he was safe, _if he was thinking about you_. 

 

The longest he ever left you was for three days. Those three days had felt like an eternity. He had to work late when the hurricane hit. He normally walked home, but the flooding was severe and the looters wasted no time in fucking up shit. It was too dangerous for him to leave and they called a lockdown at his job, claiming it was for the safety of their employees when really it was to make sure there were people there to fend off the looters. 

So you climbed into his bed and hid beneath his blanket. You curled yourself around his pillow, which smelt like him, and you cried each time wind and water slammed against his bedroom window. You asked whoever was bored enough to listen to your quiet pleas that he stay safe. You begged the person control of who lives and who dies that if one of you has to die that it be you because you didn’t want to have to live without him. 

 

When he made it home seventy-hours later, you were at school. You knew he wouldn’t want you missing school simply because he wasn’t around, so you did you best to pretend like you weren’t worried about him. All but one person fell for it. A dopey sort of kid with glasses and bright blue eyes. He cornered you coming out of the boy’s bathroom and asked you why you were crying. 

 

You told him to get lost. 

 

He gave you a sweet pair of sunglasses and told you that they were dark enough so that no one could tell. 

 

He’s your best bro now. 

 

You were wearing your glasses when he--not your best bro, but your _actual_ Bro--came home early one night. You hadn’t been crying, you just thought they looked pretty fucking boss and you retired your other glasses, the ones that looked exactly like Bro’s. There was no point in wearing them anymore. You weren’t him. You were never going to be him. 

 

You were Dave Strider and you were positively destroying that Hot Pocket because it was rare as fuck that you get to eat something other than noodles or off brand cereal. 

 

He stood in front of you, arms folded across his chest, fingerless black leather gloves peeking out from where his hands were tucked under his arms. 

 

“If you could do anything you wanted right now,” he had said. “What would it be?”

 

You frowned at his question because you never really thought about it. With a one shouldered shrug, you took another bite of your Hot Pocket. “I don’t know,” you’d answered, mouth full of cheese and pepperoni. “Go to a fancy restaurant, order a steak?”

 

“Works for me.”

 

He grabbed you by your hand and ushered you out the front door, leaving your half eaten Hot Pockets to get cold and hard. 

 

He took you out to dinner that night, but you were reluctant to eat. You had no idea how much this would cost, but you knew he couldn’t afford it. You had tried not to shift uncomfortably when he stared at you, not speaking, only watching as you poked the slab of beef with your fork. 

 

“Not hungry?” He finally asked you. 

 

“Guess I’m just full from the Hot Pockets.”

 

“One bite won’t kill--”

 

“How are we going to pay for this?” You had asked him. 

 

“Dave, chill,” he’d said. “I had a bit of extra cash.”

 

When you think about it now, you knew it was simply a kind gesture from him, but at the time, it’d pissed you off so much. “If you had extra money, you should have saved it for your sound system, not for a fucking steak dinner inside some stupid restaurant full of snooty rich people who keep looking at us like we’re trash.”

 

“Dave--”

 

“How the fuck are you ever going to become a DJ when you’re spending your money on stupid bullshit like this?” And before you had even given yourself time to process your feelings about the situation, you were snatching up your glasses and storming out the restaurant. 

 

You remember the air being oddly chilly that night and you wished you’d worn a jacket. You had your glasses on, using them for their given purpose of hiding your eyes while you cried angrily, your back pressed against the wall of the building next to the restaurant. 

 

You had only been out there for a few minutes when Bro found you and stood in front of you, invading every inch of your personal space. When he reached up to take your glasses off, you didn’t even bother trying to stop him. You were cold and tired and you just wanted things to work out for him. You were sick of being a burden to him. You’d thought about running away more than once, but you knew that wouldn’t be good enough. 

 

_You didn’t want to exist._

 

He didn’t question why you were crying that night, didn’t ask why you angry. All he did was use his thumbs to wipe the tears from your eyes and said the same thing you’d heard him say over and over again for years and years and years. 

 

“ _I got this. I got you. I got us.”_

 

And then he kissed you. 

When the two of you made your way home, you did some rather questionable things that most people probably wouldn’t do with their brothers. The next day, a man in a suit came to your house, shook your hand, talked to your Bro, and then handed him a check with so many fucking zeros you wondered if there had been some type of mistake when they printed it out. 

 

You did more questionable things with your Bro after the man in the suit left. 

 

Hours later, you went to the pawn shop and Bro picked up his sound system. It sits in his bedroom, scuffed and scratched by its previous users, but untouched by him. 

 

It’s five years ago today where the owner of an extremely popular recording studio took a chance on a pointy sunglasses wearing kid who was struggling to take care of his younger brother. 

 

That same kid, now five years older, is the CEO of his own recording studio and he’s currently dressed in a suit, his bright orange tie tied perfectly around his neck. He’s in an elevator, riding to the top floor of a swanky hotel in preparation for a business meeting he has planned. And you’re standing right next to him, in your own suit, which is red and perhaps even louder than Bro’s tie, but fuck that because red is your color and you look good. 

 

When the elevator comes to a stop sixteen floors away from your destination to let off all other passengers but the two of you, you wait for the doors to shut before you push him against the chrome walls and kiss him. 

 

You use the upper portion of your body to keep him pressed firmly against the wall as you reach down to unzip your pants and free your cock. His eyes are closed, so he has no idea what you’re up to, but that’s fine. As far as you’re concerned, he’s pretty fucking long due in the way of payback. 

 

Bro groans into your mouth and his eyes open, widen, when he feels your hand unzip his pants. He breaks the kiss to warn you that you’re still in an elevator and the odds are pretty fucking colossal that the doors are going to open before the two of you reach the top floor. 

 

“Don’t worry,” you say, as you use one hand to grasp both of your cocks, and smirk. “ _I got this. I got you. I got us._ ”

 


End file.
